


Use Somebody

by ladyrogueevie (claire_debonair)



Category: Skins (UK)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-23
Updated: 2009-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 13:35:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1094472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claire_debonair/pseuds/ladyrogueevie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It's fucked up, but it's them. How we thought the kiss should've gone, and the aftermath. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Use Somebody

**Author's Note:**

> _Onneonlights and me wrote commentfic for Skins. And I will be blaming all the angsty hate!sex I write about Skins on her, because it is so not my fault. Title sucks, like normal. I don't go for song titles for my fics, but I had no other ideas._
> 
> _Starts off as comments, then reads more like a real fic. Un-betaed, but mostly okay. Also, neither of us really wanted to write the porn in this, so there's not all that much. Loooots of angst and violence, though._

SERIOUSLY. like, the same scenario as in the show, only JJ isn't there because that would be kind of awkward, and Freddie is back against the wall and Cook is starting towards him and they are SHOUTING VERY FUCKING ANGRILY and then Cook kisses him, only it's more violent than a kiss, it's more painful, and Freddie can kind of taste blood, a little bit, and Cook goes to back off then but Freddie grabs his arm and is all, WHAT. WHAT THE FUCK NOW, YOU FUCKING HEADCASE, WHAT ARE YOU PULLING NOW and Cook just smirks at him, all, what, you like that a bit too much Freddie? You want me to pull you now, is that it? Or something equally cocky, idk, AND THEN SEX.

And now I'm imagining the aftermath, where they avoid each other and JJ tries to get them to tell him what happened, except they don't tell him because even though Cook has no shame whatsoever, and it might be fucked up, but it's between them. So they stay away from each other and try to forget about their big screw up, which works about as well as you'd think it would, and then at, idk, one of those parties that there always seems to be and Freddie gets dragged to he gets yanked into one of the bedrooms at whoever's house and there's Cook, eyes slightly manic in the dim light, and he's aiming for cocky but misses by a mile because he's desperate to touch Freddie again. 

And Freddie's got his back against the door again, which, huh, familiar position! And he can hear people just outside and it's really, really stupid, but he doesn't seem to be able to tell Cook to get the fuck off him when Cook pins his wrists against the door down by his sides. He doesn't like not being able to move though, so he pushes up off the door and into Cook and Cook kind of stumbles, even as he's yanking Freddie closer in the same movement, and this time it's Freddie who says something cutting about Cook not being able to keep away, but it doesn't sound cocky so much as just truthful, so.

And maybe Freddie tries to walk away, tries to stop this becoming even more fucked up, but Cook's hand is on his wrist still and Cook won't let go. So Freddie ends up getting yanked back, turning and falling against Cook so that this time it's him shoved against the wall, and hey, Freddie likes this too, and so does Cook because his eyes are blown wide and he can't help moving against Freddie's leg, just a bit, and it's fucking scary but also fucking hot. 

It's hardly noticeable at first, almost just like Cook's just twitching a little, and that he just so happens to be twitching in a way that means his crotch rubs up against Freddie's thigh with the movement. then he lets out a long, shuddering exhale that's two steps away from a moan, and Freddie doesn't know whether to push him away (because what the fuck? what the fuck) or pull him closer (because—because). He ends up standing there, too close, thigh fucking shoved between Cook's legs, gripping Cook's upper arms and not moving.

He stays there, not moving, not breaking eye contact with Cook until Cook lets his eyes slide shut, cocky grin slipping slightly as he rubs himself off, one hand still tight around Freddie's wrist and the other flat against the wall next to his hip, except it twitches occasionally, like he wants to touch, but can't bring himself to, because that would be crossing the line from whatever screwed up situation this is to a situation that might actually mean something. And when Cook shudders and looks at Freddie again, challenge in his eyes, it's too much and Freddie bolts, thinking he hears Cook call after him, but that's ridiculous because he thinks it's 'please' and Cook never says that. Not even to him. 

He grabs someone's drink on the way to the bathroom, a cup of this fuck off strong punch, and downs about half of it in one go once he's locked himself in there. It makes him shudder as he leans on the edge of the sink and stares at himself in the mirror, and then he thinks about Cook shuddering, and then he closes his eyes and looks away. He stays in the bathroom until his breathing is completely under control again. He looks composed as he walks back into the party, still clutching his drink. He doesn't feel it.

He feels worse, though, when he sees Cook with Emily. Emily looks a mix between uncomfortable and outright fucking bored with the way Cook's thrown an arm around her shoulders. She's not even looking at him as he talks to her, staring across the room at a group of girls Freddie imagines she wishes she could escape with. Cook's just staring straight at Freddie, and there's not a single of inch of him that doesn't look like he's trying to get a rise.

He can't fucking deal with it, not after what's just happened, and he walks out, forgetting that he was there on the hope of seeing Effy. He shoulders his way through the crush of wasted, stoned, useless people around him and gets out into the cool air, not thinking about where he's going, only intent on getting the fuck away from Cook. 

If he still had a shed, he'd go there, but he doesn't, so he ends up at the skate park, sitting at the top of the ramp with his arms around his knees and waiting. If there's one thing Cook can't do it's to stop messing with stuff he shouldn't fucking mess with, so it's not long before Freddie hears his raucous, no doubt drunk yells coming towards where he's sitting. When Cook appears, though, his walk is steady and he looks too sober to be following Freddie to a deserted skate park, at night, after they—did something Freddie doesn't want to put a name to. The look on Cook's face, angerlustdesperationfear is wrong as well, because Freddie's put it there and he doesn't know how.

Cook sits down next to him, and there's a distance between them that isn't big, but conspicuous anyway. Cook's the kind of guy who hangs off everyone until it's annoying, and then does it some more, but now they're not touching anywhere. Freddie can still feel him, though, kind of. Cook's practically shaking, and he doesn't know if it's from the cold or the effort of holding himself so still.

Freddie has to look away from him pretty quickly. He can't face that fucking look, knowing it's there because of him; he can't stop replaying everything that happened in the bedroom over and over in his head. He gets stuck on Cook's maybe, possible 'please' a lot. He glances back at him and Cook meets his eyes, and he sneers, which is a more familiar expression, but it doesn't reach all the way to his eyes.

"Fucking light," Cook says, fumbling in his pockets, a little bit drunk clumsy, and Freddie guesses it's a question. He gets his lighter out of his own pocket and holds it out wordlessly. He feels like he should get up and leave before—before anything, just go home, but he feels weird, like there's something stopping him.

He doesn't want Cook, at least not the way he wants Effy, like it's an itch under his skin, a fascination that's starting to feel more like a crush instead of the tumult of feelings he's had for the last few days. Cook takes the lighter, which is weird again, because his fingers don't touch Freddie's, not even in the offhand way that's usually unavoidable with anyone, let alone Cook, and as he blows smoke into the air Freddie wonders why he hasn't told Cook to fuck off yet.

"'s fucking cold out here, man," Cook says hoarsely, and it's almost normal; Freddie finds himself waiting for the suggestion that they go to the pub, or just somewhere warm and get trashed. Then he sees Cook's white knuckles where he's gripping the edge of the ramp, and replays the words in his head to hear the way they shake.

"Yeah," he mutters, just to say something, and sees Cook flinch slightly. Freddie realises he hasn't spoken a word to Cook all night, not even in the bedroom, doesn't know what it is about that that makes him want to hit Cook, maybe break his nose, or split his lip so Cook won't be able to kiss him again and fuck things up even more.

Cook doesn't say anything in response, like he knows the thoughts circling around Freddie's head and knows that if he makes the wrong crack now Freddie might just snap, might just twist around and push him, shove him and press up close to him and—

Freddie makes himself breathe, slowly, slowly curling his knuckles to clench and unclench his fist at his side. "Yeah," he repeats redundantly, when the silence drags on too long, and then, "can I," and reaches out and takes the fag from Cook. He does it quickly, lurching into movement before he can over think it and not do it just in case he fucking touches Cook's hand in the process, or something.

He doesn't touch him, and Cook doesn't say anything about getting his own fucking cigarettes. Freddie kind of wishes he'd start, though.

Freddie manages two puffs before Cook snaps, like Freddie knew he would. He's incapable of leaving the fuck alone, not that there was really ever any hope he'd do that with this. Freddie moves the fag away from his face as Cook moves, his battered shoes skidding as he balances himself on the ramp, hands on either side of Freddie's hips. 

"Can't fucking run from me, Freds," and he's right. He knows Freddie too well for Freddie to get away from him, knows he's been fucking inside Freddie's head for years. The cocky grin is firmly back in place, and Freddie sees red as he matches the expression with the one Cook was wearing as he shut the curtains on him and Effy. 

"Stop. Fucking. Messing, Cook," he bites out. Cook's grin goes wider, and he moves his feet so he slips down a few inches. His chin is on a level with Freddie's knees, and the implication would be fucking laughable if it weren't for the darkly serious look in Cook's eyes. Freddie tenses and feels the edge of something looming, knows either way this goes they're going to end up with bruises and the taste of blood in their mouths. 

Part of him wants to run, wants to go off and grab his skateboard and take off somewhere too fast for anyone to follow. It's only a small part of him, though. The rest of him is practically fucking anchored where he is, heart beating too fast from nerves and anger and a whole cacophony of shit he can't work out.

"Come on man, who says I'm messing?" Cook asks. He's going for that cocky, playful tone again, but he says it at the same moment he moves one of his hands so it's touching Freddie, just slightly, resting half against the side of his thigh, and he almost falters at the end of the question, when there's that point of contact between them again.

Freddie's still tense, but an edge to Cook's look that makes Freddie think that they're both in the same boat, that Cook wouldn't be doing this, being like this with him, if there was something else he could do about it.

He sees that edge and figures, what the fuck? If there were any way for them to stop - for Cook to stop - this, then they'd have done it hours ago. He drops the fag, leaving it to burn itself out, and pushes himself off the ledge to slip down between the ramp and Cook, swallowing hard as Cook's hand tightens briefly as he first moves and then goes up to press against his shoulder, holding him in place and stopping him from sliding any further down. 

"Now who's messing?" The smile is still there but Cook sounds shaken, like Freddie actually fucking doing something hadn't been what he expected to happen.

Body tense to stop himself slipping, in more ways than one, Freddie says "Dunno. You tell me," and watches the way Cook almost backs down. Almost. Then his other hand is on Freddie's hip, bruisingly tight as he leans in closesoclose, smelling of beer and maybe tequila and definitely recklessness.

Freddie pushes forward at the last second, because as weird and fucked up and probably stupid as this is, whatever it is, it's not going to be something where Cook gets to call all the shots. Cook makes a noise that might be surprised, as though he wasn't expecting that either, but it's muffled. Freddie feels it vibrate against his own lips.

The kiss would be almost chaste if it weren't for the force behind it, the way it almost hurts again. Freddie almost wishes he'd drank a lot more at the party before he left, because then he might not feel it quite so much.

Then Cook backs off—only Cook never fucking backs off, he just leans away and then moves a hand up to the back of Freddie's head, tangles his fingers roughly in his hair and then surges towards him again.

This kiss is like how they fight, full of unfair advantages as Freddie bites Cook's lip and retaliations as Cook tightens his grip on Freddie's hair, neither of them willing to give any ground and making it dirty as hell in the process. Freddie moves his hands without thinking about it, wanting to balance out the way Cook has hands on him like he's a possession, like he's a fucking girl, like he's Effy, but it messes with his precarious position and he finds himself slipping. 

He takes Cook down with him partly because he can't help it but mostly out of spite, turning it into more of a fight as they roll down the ramp in a tangle of sharp kicks and awkward punches, and by the time they stop rolling it's a full-blown fight, both of them giving it their all. Freddie tastes blood in his mouth as Cook lands a lucky blow on his jaw, aiming a knee into Cook's ribs in return. 

He's not even sure why they're fighting anymore, other than maybe it's all Cook knows how to do. Cook grunts as Freddie's knee sinks into his gut and the breath he draws in afterwards is shaky, painful sounding, and instead of feeling bad Freddie just feels a faint hint of pride. then there's a sharp spark of pain as Cook gets a hand back in Freddie's hair and tugs, hard, like they're in a fucking catfight and they're about to start slapping each other.

Freddie's whole head jerks back and Cook laughs, eyes wild, one hand still in Freddie's hair and the other resting just this side of too hard against Freddie's throat, where he can still taste blood, bitter and coppery.

He fights against Cook's hold, twisting and trying to get his hands up to force Cook's fingers out of his hair, but while he might be taller Cook's heavier, and he ends up pressed flat, Cook sitting across his waist and putting enough pressure on his throat that Freddie keeps still. The streetlights don't give much illumination, but Freddie knows they're both breathing too hard for a simple fight, knows they're both harder now than they were when they started, and knows that he should say something to stop this.

He spits blood to one side, but the tang is still in his mouth as he snarls "get the fuck off," trying to buck his hips to force Cook to move and let him up. He only figures he's said the wrong thing when Cook leans in again, a smear of blood on his lips that Freddie can't help staring at.

"You sure about that, mate?" and it's not a question so much as it's bait to get him to be the one who backs down, because it could mean more than one thing. 

The easiest option is just to not answer him, to try and twist out from underneath him again, but between the hand in his hair and the hand on his throat Freddie can't fucking move. he just ends up bucking his hips again, and now Cook's leaning in towards him it really just means Freddie's rocking up against him, and he'd be embarrassed about having to bite back a sound from the friction, from the way the pressure on his neck increases just slightly, if it weren't for the way Cook's grin slips at the same time.

Freddie spits out, "fucking let go," when nothing else happens, when Cook doesn't budge, because he's pretty sure there's only one way that can be taken at least. 

Cook bites out "fucking make me," shifting back so he's straddling Freddie's crotch, shoving his own hips down roughly to send sparks flying up Freddie's spine and making him aware of each and every bruise blooming across his body. It's too much and maybe not enough, and that's what makes Freddie grab Cook's wrist and yank the restraining hand away from his throat, using the moment of surprise to shove Cook away and roll to his feet. 

If he doesn't walk away now it'll be impossible later, sort of like how they became friends in the first place, and looking at Cook sprawled on the ground Freddie thinks he should've seen this coming, because Cook always likes things a bit fucked up, and what's more fucked up than this, than them right now. It's a night to grow a pair, or at least pretend to, and Freddie's running again before he realises he's made the choice.

And it's not that he thinks that's going to be the end of it, exactly, because it's not as though Cook ever knows when to let things go, but he really isn't expecting a phone call that same night. He's sat in his room, underneath his window with it open wide, smoking a spliff when Cook's name flashes up on the display of his mobile. He almost doesn't pick it up, but he does it in the end, just before it cuts to his answering message.

He doesn't say anything, but for a long time, neither does Cook. there's just a slightly crackling kind of silence coming out of the speaker on his phone, and then Cook says, just as Freddie's about to hang up like he probably should have done straight away, "Freds, Freddie, mate, look out your window, I'm outside."

Freddie doesn't want to look, not really, still feeling strung out from before, but he knows if he doesn't at least acknowledge Cook's presence he'll probably get fucking rocks thrown through his window. He snaps his phone shut and gets out of his room without going near the window, making it down to the outside door in time to see Cook heft a stone, ready to throw. 

"The fuck are you doing," he demands, forgetting for a moment that this isn't any other night when Cook turns up wasted wanting to sit in the shed and get even drunker, which how he ends up getting close to grab Cook's wrist to make him drop the rock and knock some sense into him like usual. But there's no shed to hide in, not really, and Cook still doesn't look completely drunk. 

"Man, I don't fucking know," Cook says, and he doesn't have that carefree, reckless, well let's see what the fuck happens anyway look on his face like he usually does when he says that; he looks almost awkward, as though he didn't quite mean to admit that.

"You'll break my window one day," Freddie says. His voice comes out low, but not quite as angry before, even though he's still gripping Cook's wrist, tight, as though Cook might throw a rock at his window at any moment anyway, for some reason. He feels stupid and exposed, out here, even though it's late enough that no one is around. He wishes they still had the shed—somewhere familiar to go, maybe to get away from how fucked up this is right now.

In the end he steps back and tugs Cook's arm, keeping some distance between them as he says "c'mon," finally letting go of Cook's wrist to lead the way into the kitchen, which is a poor substitute for the shed but it'll have to do. He makes tea because it's something to do to keep his mind away from Cook, standing there in the shadows because neither of them makes a move to turn the light on.

He can hear Cook, can feel himself being watched, and wishes JJ were here to be a buffer, like he usually is, making some comment about how most household accidents happen in the home, stopping Cook from fucking staring at him, the air closing around them as Freddie finishes with the tea and turns to give one to Cook. 

It's surprising to find Cook staring straight at him, even though he knew he was the whole time he was making tea. it's more surprising to see how still Cook is, sipping at his tea like he doesn't know how to act when he's not fronting about something, always putting it on for someone or other's benefit.

Freddie doesn't know what to say, so he just sips at his tea as well, waiting. Cook's the one who followed him, who turned up in his fucking garden. Cook's the one who should have to say something first.

He doesn't expect for Cook to keep being so still, so slow and controlled, because Cook's never like that, so he doesn't move as Cook slowly puts his mug down. Freddie can't see Cook's face all that well, but he can tell that he isn't smiling, or smirking, just...watching as he steps closer and takes Freddie's mug away and sets it carefully down on the counter next to where Freddie's leaning. Even when Cook doesn't know what to do he laughs, and swears, and generally acts like an asshole, but he's almost hesitant as he puts his hands on Freddie's hips. 

Freddie tenses without thinking, because this is different, this is Cook treating it like it fucking means something. Cook's voice is too quiet as he says "fucking just let me, yeah?" and takes that last step to press himself tight against Freddie. 

Freddie just stands there, watching Cook's face get bigger as it gets closer without saying a word. He almost wants to say something, to go against what Cook says just for the sake of being contrary, showing him what it's fucking like all the time, but he doesn't. He keeps quiet, just keeps watching, even when Cook pauses for a second or two, pressed up close against him. Freddie can feel him pretty much everywhere except his mouth, for a moment, and when Cook actually does kiss him it's not as shocking as it's been before because by that point it feels inevitable. Its Cook, but it's a position Freddie's been in before with girls, and it always ends the same.

It's weird, though, kind of. Not as much as he thinks it should be, kissing one of his best friends, kissing a bloke, kissing Cook, but his mouth hurts as Cook's presses against it, bruised and tender from earlier. Cook's hands tighten on his waist, and he presses closer against him, and Freddie opens his mouth under Cook's and maybe has to make an effort to not make a noise, almost like he can't really help it.

He doesn't really know what to do with his hands; if Cook were a girl he'd have them on her hips, maybe one loosely tangled in her hair to tip her head back, but the idea of even trying that with Cook is fucking laughable, so he settles for grabbing a fistful of Cook's shirt in one hand and holding onto Cook's neck with the other. Cook kisses him harder, until Freddie can taste the dried blood at the corner of his mouth, but doesn't do anything else. 

They're just—they're kissing, in Freddie's kitchen, at night, and it feels so weird it's almost off the scale, because Cook is practically vibrating from holding himself back from taking, like he did earlier. Freddie moves a little, spreads his legs to get better balance, and is caught off guard by the low, hungry noise Cook makes as they get pressed even closer together.

It's not frantic, not the way it was earlier or the way it was with Effy (and Freddie's stomach twists at the thought of Effy, and he can't work out if it's in a good or bad way or what), but they still have to break apart to breathe after a while. Freddie closes that distance this time, once he's breathed in deep a few times, trying to keep it steady, in control, using the counter to push forward and kiss him again.

Cook makes a noise again as he does, just as low, muffled as though there was a word in there, something he was trying to say just before they kissed. Freddie doesn't pull back again, though. He's not sure he wants to hear whatever Cook might have to say; he doesn't want Cook to start spouting all kinds of shit again, and he just spreads his fingers a little more widely over Cook's neck as Cook's tongue slides against his. It feels—it's too slow, like the calm before the storm, or something, but Freddie's not going to break it.

A noise from upstairs makes them break apart, breathing harsh and loud in the dark. It's nothing, not the sound of someone coming downstairs, but it's enough to bring back some order to Freddie's thoughts. He looks at Cook for a long moment, absently rubbing circles with his thumb onto Cook's neck and taking in the way Cook leans into it, just the slightest amount. Neither of them know what they fuck is going on, which makes it okay for him to say "I don't-" but not finish. 

"Yeah," Cook replies, and Freddie feels it more than hears it. The noise comes again, maybe Karen, but it makes Freddie want to get out of the fucking kitchen. He doesn't tell Cook he's going back to his bedroom, or any shit like that; he just goes, and leaves it for Cook to follow or not, his choice. Like any of this is a choice, really. Once there he keeps his back to the door until he hears it shut, and the small sound feels like a bomb going off.

He gives it another second or two before he does turn. Cook is standing there, close enough to the door that it almost looks as though he's about to bolt out of it. His eyes are wide; he looks like a skittish animal, kind of like one wrong move will send him running.

Freddie thinks that's not going to be a problem, because he doesn't feel like he's about to make any kind of move at all. He does open his mouth, though, about to say something, until he realises that he doesn't have anything else to say. Something like 'hi' would be too cliché, too stupid; Cook would basically have a right to take the piss, then.

Cook followed, though. Freddie has to give him credit for that, for having the balls to make that decision for the both of them. He opens his mouth again and says, "Cook." he swallows. "I. I really don't, come here." he doesn't think about the words before he says them, which helps.

Cook kisses him with familiar force, hands tight on the sides of Freddie's face, body solid and fucking relentless as he pushes Freddie backwards. His knees hit his bed with a thud and he goes down, head smacking the mattress hard as he does so. He bites Cook's lip again, just to make the point that he's not just gonna fucking take it, and feels Cook's grin. It feels like they're playing chicken again, both of them waiting for the other to pull away and say 'no, stop, I can't', and Freddie's had a whole sodding night full of that. 

He gets his hands on the bottom of Cook's shirt and yanks, almost getting whacked in the face by Cook's hands as he flails, but then it's off and Cook's looking at him like he suddenly started talking Swahili. "Fucking knew it," he grins, but it's broken up and his eyes are too bright, his hands shaky as he reaches for Freddie's top.

Freddie lets go of him just long enough for Cook to pull his shirt up over his head, and Freddie wonders if Cook's smoother with girls, because he has to struggle for a few seconds to pull it off completely. He has to sit up a little for his top to come off, but once it is he grabs for Cook at the same moment Cook leans back towards him, and the force presses him back down into the mattress.

It's like before, earlier, Cook leaning over him like this, leaning down, but this time Freddie' breath isn't coming too fast just because Cook's landed a lucky punch. Cook's still grinning, even as Freddie slides his hand up to tangle in Cook's hair this time, not to tug the way Cook did earlier but just to pull him down, to kiss him again. Cook's still grinning against his mouth, at least until his mouth opens. His skin is almost surprisingly warm when they press together.

Freddie's hand is flat on Cook's back, keeping him close, and the roughness of their trousers between them give a slightly painful but dirty friction. Freddie wants to get out of his, just because, but isn't sure if he should; Cook's still holding himself up, just enough that their bare chests are touching, but when Freddie tries to pull him down all the way Cook resists.

He can't help his hips rocking up against Cook, digs his nails in just a little when Cook does it back and feels Cook grin again, their kisses getting messier. If one of them were a girl it'd be much easier, everything falling into place with a lot less uncertainty (for the most part), but they're not, and that might just be the point. They don't have to be careful with each other, and Freddie's got the bruises and the hard-on to prove it. They both have. 

It's weird in a way, to be able to actually feel Cook, hard and moving slowly against him. it's not like it normally is, when someone gets hard around his friends and they all just mock him, make jokes about it; Cook's hard for him, because of him, and as strange as it is the thought makes Freddie's hips rock up again without him even registering the movement until he's moaning, a short, cut off noise that Cook chases with his mouth.

he slides his hand down Cook's back, fingers bumping over the ridges of his spine, but he stops when his fingertips reach the waistband of Cook's trousers. he doesn't know what to do, exactly—he doesn't know if that would be a step too far, still, even though they're rocking steadily against each other now, breathing in short, sharp pants, kissing to keep as quiet as possible.

Cook jerks back, breathing in short, hot gusts against Freddie's swollen lips. He doesn't say anything, and Freddie thinks he's about to bolt, but then he twists his hips a little and says roughly "fucking just do it, then." Freddie isn't entirely sure that he wants to, still feeling like he's got no fucking clue what's going on, but Cook's given him permission to do something, and he does. He gets his hands between them, fumbling at the button on Cook's trousers, suddenly understanding why so many girls prefer skirts.

Cook laughs, just a little, before Freddie shuts his up with his mouth and tongue. He's trying not to think too much about what he's doing as he gets the fastening undone, hands stilling on Cook's hips. Freddie's not sure if he can do that, push the material down and off, because that might just be the step too far that breaks them, but then Cook's moving, his fingers biting into Freddie's skin as he tried to get Freddie's trousers off as well. Freddie's grateful, in a terrified way, that Cook's made the decision or the both of them again, but at the same time he really wants to punch him for making it fucking impossible for them to turn back.

Freddie compromises, in a weird way, kissing Cook harder than before, putting more force into it and biting his lip again as he slides his fingers under the waistband of Cook's trousers and shoves down. They don't get further than bunching up around his thighs, because Cook's hips jerk forward when Freddie bites harder than he means to. He doesn't move back, not far enough for either of them to actually get their trousers off, but with them pulled down even a little the friction is better like this. Freddie can't seem to stop his hips moving, lips sliding across Cook's jaw when Cook breaks the kiss to make a rough noise.

In the end he just lets go, tells himself he'll freak out about it later, and lets his hips rock up against Cook. He can feel it building, white-hot and still tinged with that what the fuck are we doing feeling that's been surrounding them for days. Cook shoves his head down against Freddie's neck, breathing stuttering across skin as his thrusts become rougher, less coordinated with Freddie's own. When Freddie comes he bites down hard on Cook's shoulder to stifle his groan, closing his eyes tightly as if not seeing Cook come undone will make the aftermath any easier. 

He barely notices when Cook does come, apart from noting in a vague sort of way that Cook chokes off a cry and presses a kiss to his shoulder instead of biting. He's wrapped up in the fact that he just came because of Cook, and he feels too fucking fantastic for the sake of his sanity, and possibly their friendship.

He thinks they should—well. Freddie doesn't really know what he thinks at all, actually, caught somewhere between how weird this is (should be) and how good it feels, coming down, the heavy weight of Cook resting on him and the sticky, gross feeling of come in his pants. He feels a little bit like they're balancing, waiting for the awkward and fucked up to catch up with them.

His eyes are drawn to the red mark he's just left on Cook's shoulder, and his breathing still isn't under control. It's okay, though, because neither is Cook's. Cook still has his face pressed against Freddie's neck, and Freddie doesn't know, now, what to say or do or what comes next.

What happens is something he maybe should have expected, or at least suspected. Cook lifts his head, and Freddie thinks he's going to make some bullshit comment or just up and run, but instead Cook looks at him and says, like he doesn't want to but can't stop himself, "mate, Freds, can I-" Freddie doesn't know what do to with that, honestly. 

He doesn't want to open his eyes, see the desperation that's still in Cook's voice spread all over his face as well, because this wasn't- They fucked up, and they'll keep doing it until they end up beating the shit out of each other, or worse, doing this, but it's not something Cook should look like he wants this much. It's not something Freddie should want this much, either, and that's what makes him open his eyes. 

The look on Cook's face is open and vulnerable in a way Freddie doesn't think he's ever seen him, at least not for as long as he can remember. It's shocking, but in some weird twisted way it's comforting at the same time, because at least he isn't the only one totally out of his depth.

He doesn't say anything, for a while, because he's still not sure whether he wants to push Cook away from him before things can get weirder or pull him closer or what, and the easiest option seems to be to just stay here, frozen like this. The biggest problem is that he doesn't want to push Cook away at all, not really, no matter how much he thinks about it, but he doesn't want to think about what will happen if he does the opposite either.

Cook is still staring at him, though, and he's not saying anything else, like he's waiting for a genuine answer to a question he couldn't even finish. Freddie opens his mouth, but nothing comes out, but nodding takes just about as much effort as talking would have anyway.

He doesn't know whether to be surprised when Cook leans in and kisses him, or resigned that it looks like neither of them are getting out of this. He's definitely not surprised when Cook leans down to kiss him again, maybe can't be surprised by Cook any more tonight. It's soft, and strange, just a meeting of lips compared to Cook's previous, much harder kisses. Cook drops his head again, settling himself more comfortably on top of Freddie, and Freddie blinks up at the ceiling.

"Stop fucking thinking, mate," Cooks tells him, muffled against Freddie's cooling skin. "Freak out in the morning, you fucking pussy." Freddie can tell he's grinning, can feel it, and he thinks yeah, I can do that. He might punch Cook as well, just because, and he can do that later as well. 

"Fuck off," Freddie mutters automatically, but there's a grin pulling at the corner of his mouth no matter how serious he tries to sound. He almost wants to laugh, even as he almost shivers just from the feeling of cook's lips moving against his skin. He shifts a little bit underneath cook until he's more comfortable as well, comfortable enough to lay there for a while without moving. He wonders if cook's going to stay here tonight, for the whole night; if he's still going to be here in the morning.

Instead he keeps staring up at the ceiling. It's a familiar sight, at least, no matter how weird and unfamiliar everything else feels right now.


End file.
